The Motherless Daughters, Number III [pp. 612-622]

The Jlotherless Daughters.
to overcome her obstinacy, but in vain. When the
awful day on which Girard was to meet the penalty
of the law arrived, Mrs. Turner had not spoken
to his wretched wife, although she had gotten a
glimpse of her while the trial was in progress. Although the old lady was deeply grieved at being
thus cut off from all chance of affording consolation
and assistance, she was determined to persevere to
the last in seeking an interview. On the fatal
morning she was just setting out towards the tavern
at which Eliza staid, when she was met at her door
by a servant girl, who bore an infant in her arms,
and handed Mrs. Turner a letter, which she said
had been just given her by Mrs. Girard. Her
aunt, opening it hastily, read as follows:
I've thought of thee, and felt that thou
Would'st smile to see the portal ope,
To one who e'er has been as now,
Lured on by one bright geni-Hope.
Vainly the laurel-crown were given
To woman's brow, if love were not
The holy star that gilds life's even,
A part and parcel of her lot!
The violet might strive in vain
To break its hood of em'rald hue,
If glowing sun and gentle rain
-Help'd not the lovely flow'ret thro'.
So if love's pure and gentle beam
Shone not upon the laurel wreath,
Ho w dark the gifted poet's dream Vain were his gift-its wearing death!
"Dear Aunzt:
d"When you receive this, the hand which wrote
it will be cold in death; the spirit which dictated
it will be gone, ah! whither will be nothing, or the
subject of everduring remorse and eternal torment.
My prospects were once bright as heart could wish.
I was born to wealth, to beauty, and to talent.
Alas! what have they availed me? My riches exposed me to the sordid schemes and resentment of
a base relative; my charms of mind and person
have proved my destruction here, and perhaps
through a dread eternity. I lost my mother in
childhood; and in her, virtue, happiness, all was
lost. Her's was the only hand which could have
eradicated the evil weeds of passion that sprung up
so luxuriantly in my character; and she might have
been my directress in the paths of virtue and honor.
But an evil fate denied me that blessing. In my
childhood, the natural frailties of my disposition
were uncorrected by my fond, but ill-judging father;
and at a later period, my fiercer passions, my vanity,
my depravity, rapidly gathered strength in the house
of my debauched, mercenary, accursed uncle. My
natural skepticism was hardened into positive enmity to religion, and I became familiarized with
vice in all its forms. Your christian spirit will
prompt you to say, that it is not yet too late to repent:-but repentance is not for such as me. My
sorrow is not the effect of contrition, which might
lead to reformation: it is the anguish of a mind at
war with itself, and which feels that it can never,
never be at peace. Existence here is so great a
burden, that hell has no additional terrors for my
soul. My soul itself is a hell. I fly to self-destruction in hope of annihilation; and if I should be disappointed in that desperate hope, no diabolical malignity can invent torments greater than I already
endure. There is only one tie which binds me to
life. It is affection for my child-born in shame,
and the heir of dishonor. Often have I thought of
sending it from this evil world in its time of unsullied innocence; but my heart, steeled to every other
virtuous emotion, melts with maternal affection.
The hand which I am just about to raise against
And now, I can but watch its light,
While gath'ring round my quiet home,
Because it shines on them to-night
Where tow'rs the proud and lofty dome.
And as my simple lay I sing
That tells my thoughts are oft with the
I ask of eld no magic ring
To know thy heart is now with rue.
Clark's Afills, Ohio, J~tne, 1840.
[Sr,PTF,lVIBER,
612
When standii,g at the gate of Fame,
Thro'whicli I've hoped my way to win,
And gazing on those words of flame,
Inscribed above it-,' enter in;"
I think of thee, as mem'ry flings
Her light upoii life's varied trackAs with a gentle hand she brings
The summer hours of childhood back,
Before the birds had left the nest
Which sheltered them thro' sun and rain,
To seek abroad that quiet rest
Which they may never find again..
11-k'of thee this balmy June,
For in the last I was with thee,
Looking upon the gentle moon
'Neath spreading vine and graceful tree.
E.GERIA..
THE MOTHERLESS DAUGEITERS.
BY A VIRGINIKN.
(Co?zcl,,vdedfrom our last Numbe?-,)
CHAPTER 111.
We must now ask the attention of our readers to
a person who, althouoh casually mentioned, has not
yet been brought conspicuously forward in this narrative. We allude to the excellent Mrs. Turner.
DuriDg the pro,,-ress of th e trial, and in the interval
between the day of trial and that of execution, that
amiable lady repeatedly sought an interview with
her poor niece, but had been peremptorily denied
admittance. The wretched victim of passion could
not bear the sight of one, whose very presence was
a cutting reproach. Yet the kind-hearted aunt did
Dot resent this treatment; but understanding the
motive of her misguided relative, made every effort